


life is like a fiver

by Hazzafagga



Category: One Direction
Genre: 1d, College AU, Depression, Dom!Harry, F/M, Fluff, High School AU, Homophobia, M/M, OD, OD attempt, Possessive!Harry, Romance, Self Harm, Soulmates, Sub!Louis, True Love, alternative!harry, attempted suicide, gay relationship, homophobic, larry fluff, niall x gemma, one dirction, one direction oneshot - Freeform, passive!louis, schoolboy!louis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-28
Updated: 2015-05-28
Packaged: 2018-04-01 18:17:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4029850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hazzafagga/pseuds/Hazzafagga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>one where louis doesn't think he'll find happiness in a match-made world. until he finds that match-made means match-made.</p>
            </blockquote>





	life is like a fiver

**Author's Note:**

> I was majorly inspired by another oneshot with this though I've forgotten what it's called, but props to the author who gave the idea. I ship larry hard, they are real and that's all I have to say about that.

Everything is dark. It's always dark. The world is dark the moment that the sun goes up, and as it dies after the day - day by day - is still dark. Life is dark. It's always dark. Everything is dark in a world where perfectness exists. Perfectness, the having of absolute beauty in anyone and everyone's eyes, has failed to give happiness as it was meant.

  
The unmatched have felt this pull of hopelessly for as long as time goes on and goes back, and in some cases, that certain hopelessness fails to release timely and give itself to the newborn. This group of people, the group everyone has belonged to at one point, sees the world as is. As its lonesome, excruciating reality. Louis sees the dark side of the world. It's always dark.

  
Louis likes to think about life and its ugliness. He likes to ponder the fact that water is blue, that clouds can become pink, that rainbows have red to purple and touch the ground and reach the heavens, as he's been told. He doesn't see rainbows. And he doesn't see blue, or pink and red and purple. He likes to imagine what exactly colours look like, for he understands that they are beautiful, but he is non-matched, so there is no point in pondering these things.

  
Though as morning rises sometimes, he watches through his window the sun. He likes how white it is - likes that it casts shadows under the tree in the front garden. And sometimes, the whole sky is the sun, as sometimes there are no clouds, no rain, no flashes of grey in ribbons. It's all one sometimes. He likes to ponder how the sun does that.

  
One morning whilst he watched it rain, he stood outside on the front steps staring at the kids run through the mud in their rain boots. He watched them splash each other, and they were all so dirty, but they somehow didn't mind because they were matched.

  
His mum came out to edge him off the porch. "Sweetheart, go on to school," she said, walking him down to the other kids, an umbrella over their heads. "And don't fret about creatives today. You can use whatever shades you want. Don't let the shade chart bother you, poppet, you just don't mind it. If other children tell you you use the wrong colours, what do you say?"

  
"I say, 'It doesn't matter, egghead, we're in creatives.'"

  
"Always. Don't fret, sweetheart."

  
Though that was years ago. The children in his class have all grown up now. He's noticed the boys fill out and the girls grow, the boys flirt and the girls comprehend. He could definitely do that. Seventeen years old, year twelve in college, he could flirt. But what was the point? He could like someone dearly, call it love, and still feel nothing. He could give his all and feel absolute emptiness. See no colour. Have no perfectness. The world is supposed to be perfect. And it is. To the unmatched it's, however, hell. And the non-matched, is life not worth living.

  
Now, Louis likes to think about the system _match-made_. He studies it in his spare time. He has a friend, and he's been unmatched. Louis makes note of his flirtation though, following him round school as he finds one of the girls he likes. Louis likes to watch how he looks at these girls; and as he knows well, Niall is not matched with any of them.

  
Louis studies matches in his spare time. He studies his little sister whom his jealousy of grows accordingly as she shares about creatives. Phoebe found her match at six years old. Louis has always watched her play with him, her matched, and seeing the way the children look at each other, eight years old now, he's never felt more alone.

  
Louis is seventeen and non-matched. His mum has been non-matched for as long as he can remember, hence her seven children divided amongst three fathers. Louis knows that she will never be matched. He recalls clearly as she's told him once that she had gone exactly one week seeing the colour of her surroundings, and afterward, was cut. Her matched had died leaving her non-matched.

  
Nonetheless, this happening is called the wash connection. A person's wash connection is a spiritual, emotional and mental bond with their matched that gives them both tints or full colour film, letting the two persons know that the other is near. The Tomlinsons typically have their wash connections early, before the age of ten. Louis is seventeen, and will never share this bond with another.

Louis' favourite major shade is three: yellow. His favourite minor shade is one-four: vermilion. It's hard for him to remember his special shades, as it is to remember special colours. He knows his favourite is a four (green) but the dashed digit is usually mysterious, though the colour is called teal emerald. His matched friends say it's a pretty colour.

  
On a day the sky was a musty five, Louis watched it rain from his school desk. The blinds were pulled, so he could see a group of year nines picking on a younger boy. He knew the boy's name. He was called Jan.

  
Louis didn't care though. They weren't matched - he didn't have to care.

  
That day, Niall had come up to him with an ecstatic beam.

  
"I got my wash!" He snatched Louis' book from his hands and slammed it closed.

  
"Wow."

  
"It's so amazing! I got it yesterday at first during dinner and a couple times this morning _during_ school. Whoever it is, I think they go here."

  
"That's really great, Niall." Louis reached out for Niall's hand. "Can I have my book back?"

  
Niall sat beside him at a free desk and tugged it close. "Lou," he said intriguingly quiet. "I felt it. It's... It's like nothing you could ever imagine. The loneliness. It goes away. It really does. When you get the connection, you feel it. You see everything in such a beautiful way. The _right_ way. The colour... it's perfect, Lou."

  
"I've heard that, yeah," Louis agreed, his head nodding. "Colour. Perfectness. It's an overrated luxury my kind cannot afford. See, I've got ten pounds at home and picked up a fiver in the courtyard. I got money, but what can I buy with a fiver? If I could get my book back." He reached for his book, and Niall dispiritedly handed to him.

"I don't see it now, Louis. I see only shades now. It was this morning and yesterday I seen it."

  
The bell interrupted them. Louis gathered his things and slipped them into his backpack, purposefully standing to bid goodbye. "I'll see you."

  
"Lou?" Niall grabbed his arm before he could leave. "I don't think you're non-matched, if it means much."

  
Louis laughed a ridiculously derisive laugh, patting his friend's arm and leaving for the door.

  
"Louis, I looked up vermillion!" Niall called after him. "It's a very pretty colour!"

  
A week ago that was. Louis hasn't spoken to Niall since.

  
He likes to speak to his mum about the wash connection. He likes that he can ask her anything of it and not feel the heartbreak in knowing that his mum has her matched and completed film. She will never have it. He is heartless to manipulate his mother this way, but those who would realise it would hardly mind.

  
"You are not non-matched, my love," she likes to say. "You will know when and if you're non-matched. The feeling is entirely different than being unmatched. You feel hopelessness, Louis, not suffering. There is a difference. When you go from unmatched to non-matched, you feel a ripping in your chest, like your heart is split down the middle and crushed. I'm not saying that you don't feel grief, darling, because you do. But it's the normal grief that everyone goes through at your age when they've yet gotten their wash connection. It's at sixteen when you start getting symptoms. Remember that? It's normal, my love, don't fret."

  
Louis sometimes comments on his mother's lecture.

  
"Niall didn't feel so hopeless before he got his wash," he said yesterday.

  
"Some people hide it rather well, flirt just in case, like him. It's like a backup. When my matched died, I already knew your dad and I liked him a lot, so we got married. But since he isn't my matched, we didn't get on well, so I remarried and had your sisters, then remarried again and had the twins. It's sometimes not very good for someone to replace their matched or fight the urge to connect."

  
"The urge to connect? You mean the wash? Who would ever try to fight that?"

  
"You'd be surprised. I've known people who've felt like the bond is turmoil. It's a rather selfish thought. Each person has a matched and those unmatched are drawn to each other. It's pointless to fight. You can try your hardest to push your other away, but you'll only end up hurting the both of you. It's selfish and I hope you never do that to your matched."

  
Louis likes to believe that he is non-matched. Growing up in a family where the children get their washes and meet their matched early is embarrassing to him. He feels embarrassed. He is seventeen and has not had his wash connection. It is seen to him like virginity. Only virginity is traditionally lost with one's matched. And he won't have that.

  
He likes to listen to music whilst sitting in his room, staring at the neutral shades he has as his decor. His favourite neutral shade is one: white. Though he doesn't have much of that in his room. He has a grave amount of sixes and sevens. Eight is what he wears usually. Sometimes he likes to wear ones and fives of the major shades, but the neutral shades are what he wears most.

  
Today he wants to wear vermilion for non-uniform day. Today, Louis likes six-seven off the major shades. It's called pink. He understands that usually girls wear it, but something about six-seven sounds breathable.

  
It's hard sometimes to dress. Being non-matched and difficultly taught, he can't tell his shades as well as he should. Some people call it colourblindness.

  
As the sky is the sun, Louis avoids direct contact with nature on his way to college. He has sunglasses that are a neutral shade eight, and since today he's wearing major, he's not too warm.

  
The world is still dark. Life is dark. It is dysphoric and miserable, and Louis is always miserable. He thinks about dying sometimes - what would happen. He is non-matched, but if he somehow wasn't, impossibly, he'd ponder the thoughts of his matched. The thoughts his mum had. If Louis was unmatched, he would never give grief to his other. He wouldn't dream of it. But he is _non-matched_ , so his pondering is pointless.

  
Whilst Louis comes on campus through the courtyard, he sees the ground change. He cannot describe the way it looks other than washed. The ground looks washed away and painted in something strange.

  
Louis quickly looks up. His useless breaths have sped, watching his classmates walk past him laughing and chatting to each other. They all look washed. He takes off his sunglasses and stares directly at the sky. He can't remember what number it is; if it's major, minor, special. But it must be special, because he can feel his heart throbbing terribly.

  
A young girl who had been walking by stops to tell him, "It's blue."

  
Louis nods to himself once she's gone. The sky is typically a five: blue. And the clouds are a neutral one: white. The sun is three. Louis likes three. It's called yellow. And grass is called green. Louis likes the sort of green that is teal emerald. And his sweater, one-four, is vermillion. And he thinks that vermillion is so, very pretty.

  
As Louis tries converting one of the courtyard's flower's shades, the change dies.

  
He finds Niall as soon as he can. "What colour am I wearing?" he asks out of breath as he's ran straight from outside.

  
Niall laughs. "A girly one."

  
"Vermillion. It's called vermillion."

  
"I know, I can convert shades, too."

  
"No, but I saw it, Niall." Louis grabs his arm, nearly in tears at his discovery. "I saw it. It's beautiful. I've had my wash connection."

  
Niall grins bittersweetly, pulling Louis into the tightest hug they think possible.

  
It feels comfortable. Louis feels comfortable in his arms, and as he squeezes just a little tighter, he sees Niall's yellow hair. He touches it, and he touches Niall's red shirt. The wash connection has happened again, and he feels a pull in his chest.

  
Niall says to him that he's having his wash connection as well, and for a moment they're awkward. But when their hands touch mistakingly, their washes go, leaving them breathless and frantic.

  
The next day, Louis leaves home running. He finds Niall immediately as they bomb through school searching for their matched. Louis doesn't have his wash that day.

  
Today now, Louis leaves home running through rain. He's not in his rain boots and his uniform is dirty with mud, but it doesn't matter. When he gets to school, he has the wash and nearly jumps in the puddles. The courtyard flowers are pink, orange, yellow and gold, glistening like treasure under their raindrops.

  
Louis can't find Niall, so he rings him at home, as he's ill.

  
"Do I keep looking?" he asks him. "I mean, the wash is going off and on. Does that mean I'm close? Far away?"

  
"It means you're close enough. You can look or you can wait for the bond to pull you together. I don't think it'll take long since she probably goes to our college."

  
Louis doesn't like the mindset given by the _match-made_ system. He likes to remember that the spiritual bond is exclusively spiritual. Though majority of matches are opposite sex. If a soulful connection should be soulful, a match shouldn't be first decided by gender, he thinks. But if whoever is his matched, he shall love them the same.

  
Louis' walking out of class after the bell. His chest aches impatiently, heart pounding. It's a flutter, and he feels a pull.

  
A girl passing him smiles. He smiles back, sharing his happiness with the boy following her.

  
But he glares at Louis impassively, brows furrowed, hair in his face before scooping it back, mussing it. He eyes Louis up and down, and as Louis accidentally drops his books, the boy looks ahead and continues following the girl.

  
Louis watches him walk away, and whilst he does, he can't expound the exhaustion of his breath. He feels lack of air, lack of knowledge. As he walks away, too, his wash becomes vibrant, then is gone.

  
On Saturday, he asks his mum how to distinguish whether or not a person is his matched.

  
"You feel it. You see that person and you feel safe with them. You feel dependent on them and you constantly feel the need to talk to them, about them, just see them or hold them. You just feel whole with your matched. Have you felt that way, poppet?"

  
Sunday goes by sluggishly. Louis likes to sit in his room and listen to music. Today sitting alone on his neutral duvet, head lain upon his neutral pillow looking across at his neutral chair, he feels depressed. He knows what neutral shades look like now. His room is grey. His clothes are black. He sometimes thinks, now, that he doesn't like the neutral shades anymore. But Louis still likes the major shades' three and the minors' one-four.

  
He's been questioning his music.

Louis listens to Susanne Sundfør everyday, subsequently after a shower, to make himself upset before breakfast. In a world where perfectness exists, happiness of the individual is unnecessary. When everything is perfect, for someone who is imperfect, Louis tries his best to maintain individuality. But he has started listening to The Weepies yesterday. On Sunday, he likes Frank Zappa.

  
Louis stood outside before going to school. He watched the birds fly, the bugs crawl, the leaves on the front garden tree dance and listen to them whistle. His mum has begun bidding him goodbye with kisses recently. Today she hugged him before he left - had given him an umbrella and his book that he misplaced yesterday.

  
At school, Louis doesn't need his umbrella. He leaves it in his backpack as he walks across campus in the rain. He misses his wash connection.

  
The next day he has it, however, though it's dull. He smiles when he wakes nonetheless, and he decides he wants to listen to Alvvays as he stares directly into the sky before having breakfast.

  
He runs from home as it's hot, pulling his umbrella behind him in the air, catching the courtyard bugs once he's come to school.

  
Niall finds him straight away and tackles him into his locker. "I met my matched on Saturday."

  
"Really?" Louis fixes his hair and prepares his books.

  
"Yes. Her name's Gemma, she just moved here. I was giving Zoey a walk and the wash was just going, like, going-going. I felt weird - it was like a pull-y kind of feeling - and I didn't know what it was, but it was sort of pleasant. I was walking by this house and Zoey was pulling me really hard. I stopped to calm her down, that's when Gemma came out. She walked up to me smiling, then I knew. She wasn't even getting the mail or anything. No one just walks out of their house to introduce themselves. And she seemed so relieved to see me as if we've known each other our whole lives. It felt like that for me. Like I knew her. Like I know everything about her. And after we met, she invited me in. I stayed there for hours and we just talked and I was so comfortable with her. Then again on Sunday she invited me back. We were so comfortable with each other, it's almost scary but not, because... it's like she's my best friend. I could hold her and sit on her real hard and she'd throw gummy bears at me. And right now, not being with her, I just miss her. A lot."

  
"How do you know it's her?"

  
"Because when I left her house on Saturday, I didn't stop seeing colour. I have the full film now and Gem said the same. Full film is a confirmation, not a way of knowing. When you find them, you just know."

  
Louis likes to think that he's non-matched. The idea of not having a matched is appealing to him; to think that he cannot lose his matched or control of himself, due to the symptoms, if he never had one in the first place entices him. Subconsciously, he feeds on loneliness. Eternal loneliness is what he hopes for.

  
But Louis has had his wash connection all day. Louis is not non-matched.

  
Today whilst it's warm, the time is special as such because he recognises a face that had scowled at him once.

  
Whilst he opts to leave maths, the boy meets him at the doorway.

  
Louis feels taken apart, like floating speckles of dust easily seen against sun - standing in the doorway across him, he feels untouchable.

  
They stare each other in the face, Louis letting go of his bad posture to stand taller in front of him. He, the boy, wears pink on his lips and cheeks, green in his eyes, black in his hair as he dresses in his school button-down. His entirety enthralls Louis.

  
"Can you please move?" the boy snidely asks.

  
Louis nods and steps aside, for he knows no better. He turns to watch the boy pass, his broad shoulder bumping him hard and having him stumble. But Louis can't help behaving passively like so. He can't help his thoughts that go on and on about this boy into the night and so forth.

  
He likes to interview his sisters on how they ever realised and accepted their matched.

  
"I don't really know," Phoebe always says. "Mum bought me to hospital when I fell out the tree in the garden and he was at the sitting room. I just played with him, that's all. We just played."

  
"But how did you know it was him?"

  
"I don't really know. I got my wash connection and he did as well."

  
Louis likes to run. He runs everyday before and after school whilst he listens to Richard Ashcroft, which is who he listens to now. He currently likes a lot of things he had no intention of introducing himself to a few months ago. He likes the colour orange now, though teal emerald is one colour that he still greatly admires.

  
Louis likes to pretend he's matched. It seems to him that the more he acts as being loved, the more he believes his match will love him so when they meet. He imagines the face: dark skin, curly hair, lips as red as the front garden flowers and eyes bright like stars. Louis can see the body; fair, smooth chest, delicate arms that would hold him with encouragement to brighten him. The voice Louis hears in his head about the way his matched speaks upsets him. When he thinks about it, he thinks about being handled, not depended on. He has the thoughts of being smothered in kisses and hugs, nice things, and perhaps he's only confused, but he wants a boy.

  
Louis likes boys. He's afraid that the match-made will leave him unsatisfied and disappointed with a girl. But he knows - understands - that the spiritual bond is spiritual.

  
When Louis goes to college, he asks the other kids to donate to the charity he's volunteered to help. His teachers give him a plethora of money, because with the look Louis gives them, it's near impossible to say no. His maths professor offered the charity five pounds, and of course, everything counts. (Louis donated his fifteen pounds and continues putting in every piece of spare change he can find.)

  
At the library, he needs to return his book. And there, he asks the librarians for donations and a recommendation in Greek mythology teen fiction. The book is called _Dreadlocks_ and is far too young for his read, but he settles for it anyway.

  
Louis feels tightening in his chest when he ponders where to sit. Without looking to see if it's full, he goes to the back table.

  
The scowling boy is there working with a fine-tip pen.

  
"Hello," Louis says.

  
The boy looks up then back down, keeping up his writing. "How are you?"

  
"I'm well. You?"

  
"Fine."

  
"Have you a pen?"

  
The boy's hand stops a moment, apparently weighing out his manners. He's indecisive, opts to offer a pen from his backpack, but gives Louis the fine-tip.

  
"Thank you." Louis opens his bag for paper, though he doesn't carry it loosely so he must ask another thing. "Um... have you any paper please?"

  
He's given three sheets of paper, and as he writes the book information, the boy's work catches his eye. Louis stares at his paper whilst the boy sits waiting, hands in his lap, glaring at them.

  
"That's quite nice, the way you did that," Louis swoons, suddenly feeling foolish about his poor handwriting beside the boy's. "It's lovely. You never do see people now that care much for good calligraphy. Your calligraphy is really quite nice. Can I read it?"

  
The boy flushes. "No."

  
"Oh. Is it a story? Are you a writer?"

  
"No. It's not so much personal, just not done."

  
"Is it just coursework then?" Louis pulls the chair next to him and sits.

  
"It's not coursework, it's just... I don't know. I like to write. Physically, with my hand. Sometimes you just like to do things and you don't know why." He looks at him.

  
Profound is the way he stares. Like the sun that always does no matter what chooses to stand in front. She could be blind and still see. Happiness is what she makes. Perfectness. Everything is perfect. It's a song to be alive in this moment; this moment that shall stay with him for always. Louis feels distrait and inattentive to anything else that he might like that isn't this boy he's sitting beside. Beside this boy that's sun to him, he feels so warm.

  
The boy opens his mouth to speak, then quickly scoops up his papers to stand in angst.

  
Louis stands with him, though the boy walks. "Oh. What did I say?"

  
"You didn't say anything. I have to go."

  
"Before you avoid me forever, would you like to donate?" Louis scrambles to open his backpack for his money box, chasing up to the boy who has politely stopped. "'A homeless shelter would appreciate your help in supplying better sleeping conditions, increasing food abundance, and your love and care. Anything helps, even just telling a friend or neighbour. Little things like giving away unwanted toys, clothes or health care products to donation centres can make all the difference. Your junk could be someone else's treasure.' There's a man that walks round my neighbourhood. He goes to the shelter sometimes. He needs a coat and shoes." He offers the box with big eyes and a step closer.

  
The boy looks at him, and Louis can see him visually, physically melting to putty. He gives a sweet eye-roll and dives for the wallet in his back pocket. "That face, that's unnecessary. I would've donated without it - you don't need to victimize me to your cuteness." He smiles keenly and gives everything in his wallet.

  
Louis breathes in awe. "Oh, you don't have to do that."

  
"I've got a coat and shoes."

  
The next day, Louis runs to school as fast as he can through the sprinklers. Nearly every house has its sprinklers on today, as it's watering day, and there are children yet to enroll in school playing in the lawn.

  
When Louis finds Niall, he tackles him into his locker. "Donation?"

  
"Why are you all wet?"

  
"I'm happy. Care to donate?" He taps his money box on Niall's blond head.

  
"No, I donated ten pounds yesterday."

  
"I emptied the money into my piggy bank, so there's nothing in here at the moment. Except for the fiver Mum gave me for new socks. All mine got holes."

  
"Why do you put all your money in this?"

  
Louis shrugs and bites his lips. "Five pounds goes a long way. Not for me."

  
The next day, Louis stayed a moment longer home to tell his family that he's been having his wash connection.

  
His mum chased him at the front door to shower him in kisses and hugs. "I told you, poppet," she said, tearing up beautifully. "You see? You bring your matched home right away so I can meet them. Sweetheart, I'm so proud of you for coming so far."

  
Louis never forgets the symptoms that are shared between the non-matched and unmatched. Depression is typical, critical. It is why it is so rare to be non-matched, as individuals without a matched have an empty feeling that can rarely be surpassed. Attempted suicide is typical, critical. As Louis' mum is proud of him, he could never be more proud of her.

  
At school, Louis sees Niall with a girl. He can recognise her well as a girl who had smiled at him once. "Hello," he says to her. "I'm Louis, Niall's friend."

  
She smiles brightly. "Hi, I'm Gemma. Niall's friend, too."

  
And suddenly, Louis is on the verge of tears. He gives one last smile and hugs the girl, waves to Niall and leaves.

  
He walks home crying. He feels heartbroken, shattered, like something has been taken from him. Torn from him mercilessly and kicked and ripped apart. A feeling overtakes him, a feeling to lay in the bath with the water running and only lay, deep, deep in. He feels he wants to lay in the sky, the ocean, the earth.

  
His mum grabs him by the arm once he's home and cradles him like a child, hushing him who hugs himself wholeheartedly and weak.

  
Louis stays in his room the next few days. He keeps himself in his bed. He has Susanne Sundfør playing, which makes him cry traumatically. To talk to his mum about what's happened is something he won't do, as he knows not himself. All he knows - understands - is that he should be feeling this way. Something bad has happened, and his mum should politely subside and let him die in his room with darling Susanne Sundfør playing.

  
His wash connection doesn't come as he's away. The constant sight of his neutral room gives him grief. He cries everyday. The more he looks at his decor, wall, closet, the tighter his chest feels, the harder it is to breathe.

  
Louis thinks he's non-matched. His wash connection has gone away for days, and as days became weeks once he's gone back to school, he wishes nothing more but to kill himself.

  
His first day to college again, he stood on the front porch, his face pale, eyes dull and red. He watched the children play in the yard across him, elder people walk their small dogs.

  
His mum came to bid goodbye, giving him a glass of water and anti-depressant from her medicine cupboard. He said nothing to her as she told him she loves him; only walked off the porch and to school.

  
Niall found him immediately, holding his hand firmly as he held Gemma's in the other. They walked together in silence, and with the one glance Louis took at Gemma - just one to see what she really looks like - she looked cut apart.

  
Louis doesn't look at her anymore.

  
Today, Louis tries overdosing on anti-depressants when he wakes. His young sister Daisy watches him, as she knows when enough is enough, and tells their mum who drags her crying son to the toilet to throw up.

  
"I'm sorry, poppet," she's been telling him. "I think you know something's happened to them. I'm sorry. You did deserve to have them."

  
Louis stays home another few days. His mum has him in the living room now, the TV to watch and too much food for his thinning stomach to eat. She tells him she's renovating.

  
It's Saturday today, unbearably bright outside when Niall calls to ask how he is. "I know you're not really up for anything, but Gemma and I are going camping. I want you to come."

  
"I can't go outside. My mum thinks I'll hang myself."

  
"Oh. Well, we don't have to camp. We can make a sight at Gem's."

  
"I'm not ruining your plans, Niall."

  
"You're not. I'm ruining yours."

  
Niall gets Louis at his house and they walk to Gemma's together. He and she had been living on the same street since she moved to Doncaster, which is why Niall always had his wash connection, even when he was home. When Louis' home, he watches the telly in black and white.

  
Gemma greets the boys with hugs as they come, paying Louis a soft stroke on his hair and remorseful smile. She hosts their gathering with TV, music and card games, food entering and exiting, and not once had Louis looked at her. Though her home is something he likes greatly and could sit and admire for hours.

  
"I'm not very sure I know how to play this one," Louis says, watching Gemma set up the cards on the floor.

  
"Oh. Well, I can teach you. It's two-player, so just watch us real quick." She hands Niall five cards and puts fifteen beside him. "You start with twenty, but you can only use five at a time. When I turn two of these cards over, that means the game starts, and you have to go through your hand and put down coordinating cards as fast as you can. Like since this card is six, you would put down a seven or a five. Niall, put down a card."

  
He goes through his hand and lays a nine on a jack.

  
"See? I didn't have any cards for those, but since he put down a nine, I can put down an eight. And now I have no good cards again, so I get a card from my extra fifteen. Now I have a five, so I put that down, and see, I have all these cards I can just stack up. But it's against the rules to put more than one card down at a time, so you just put them down really fast." Like lightning, she places down all four cards, leaving an ace.

  
"That's not fair!" Niall complains, putting down another ace.

  
"Yes, it is. Now I get another five cards and keep going." She throws down two more cards, resupplies her hand and splits it between the two piles. Within seconds, she's out of cards. "Speed. You say that when you win. That's how you play."

  
"That's stupid," Niall says, dropping his cards. "I didn't know it was a real game."

  
"It's always a real game."

  
Louis bites his lips and scoots in closer. "What are these two piles for?"

  
"They're like extra cards." She takes back some of her hand that she put down and has Niall pick up his. "Let's say both our hands were full and neither of us had any cards to put down. We'd both put our hand on one of the piles and flip at the same time."

  
"What if you still don't have a card?"

  
"You just flip again. But the thing is, both persons have to have no cards, otherwise it's not fair."

  
"But if just one person doesn't have cards, they just have to sit there until they can put something down or lose. That's not--"

  
Louis' interrupted by Gemma's red shirt and purple of the throw pillow hugged against his own chest. But maybe he's imagining it. He rubs his eyes and looks round. The house is suffused entirely in explosive colours, rain-dropped by pretty accents and compliments. Gemma's hair is painted like the sun when it looks its best.

  
"Gem, have you washed my shirt?"

  
Louis feels like his heart may burst. He turns round, and he's sure that he must look as doltish as he feels, because the scowling boy is standing just behind him, glowing about the wash.

  
He's shirtless. Louis' heart couldn't possibly beat any quicker or any harder than at this moment. The boy's hair is wet and dark against his pale shoulders, inked down his arm to his hands, across his chest and stomach, snaking down into his shorts. He's beautiful and full of life, what Louis can see. But he doesn't know what to think when he spots an uncomfortably red scar on the boy's wrist.

  
He catches Louis' stare and pulls his arms into his chest, crossing them. "Gemma," he demands.

  
"Which shirt?"

  
"My orange tie-dye one."

  
"It's in the dryer." She looks at Louis and smiles. "Want to play?"

  
It's difficult for him to give her proper attention, though he doesn't try too hard, nodding as he watches the boy leave. Watches the tattoos on his back, somehow feeling invited.

  
Louis plays against Gemma thrice and Niall twice before they settle on going to Sonny  & Sid for frozen yogurt.

  
As Louis opts to put on his jumper, the scowling boy comes down dressed in a sleeveless tie-die shirt and flip-flops. "I'm sure it's hot outside," he says, hooking a pair of sunglasses on his collar.

  
Louis nods pliably and lays his jumper down on the couch, getting his own sunglasses off of his shirt. He smiles. "It's real lovely to see you again."

  
"You, too. How's the charity?"

  
Louis' chest aches wonderfully today. He likes to watch Niall and Gemma hold hands in the car, smile at each other for no reason at all it seems, share quick kisses on the cheek. He can see it bothers the scowling boy, who must be her brother, as he stares disgustedly at them through the interior mirror. And Louis has the seat beside him.

  
As Niall opens the door for Gemma at Sonny & Sid, Louis tries the other. It's rather heavy, has him struggling a bit and a man to bump him rudely on his way out.

  
Gemma's brother snatches the door open and puts an arm round Louis' shoulder, pulling him in close. "Watch where you walk," he says to the man. And it's almost silly how Louis looks up at him.

  
The four of them sit alined on the curb. Louis wanted to sit with Niall, though Gemma wanted to sit beside her brother, and Louis couldn't not sit beside him either.

So the boys sit together closely.

  
The scowling boy is an interesting individual. His name is Harry and he likes orange and blue. He dyes his hair that is naturally brown and gets tattoos very, very often. He says he's addicted to them and will be fully inked inch-by-inch by the time he's twenty-five. His first tattoo is covered up. He doesn't talk about it.

  
"What kind of music do you listen to?" Harry asks, stealing a bite of Louis' yogurt.

  
Louis takes a sip of Harry's smoothie before showing him the different radios on his phone. "I'm not sure how to call it. I like slow and calm music. Benjamin Clementine. Moddi. Frank Zappa."

  
"Frank Zappa?" Harry asks smiling. "That's not slow. You like that?" He goes through Louis' music, biting his lips at the artists he doesn't know, licking his lips at the artists he does. "And you have The Weepies. _And_ Brigitte. Can you understand what they say?"

  
"Um, sometimes. I'm taking French."

He smiles again, watching Louis dip his spoon in yogurt. When he opens his mouth to eat it, fondly anticipatory, Harry nudges his hand, smearing a pink glob across Louis' cheek.

  
His eyes go wide, Harry laughing a purely gratifying laugh.

  
"That's not funny," Louis pouts, scooping yogurt on his finger and splotching it on the boy's nose.

  
" _You're_ not funny."

"You're funny- _looking_."

  
Harry simply wipes Louis' cheek clean with his thumb and takes his chin, tilting his head up. As Louis stares at him lean in, his hands nearly crush the cardboard bowl he's holding, his eyes following Harry's lips very, very carefully.

  
But Harry doesn't kiss him. He only bumps his nose against Louis', dotting some pink on his pasty skin. "Now we're the same."

  
Louis likes Harry. He likes the colours he likes and listens to the music he listens to. And he's comfortable with him. Louis likes Harry a lot. He likes to talk to him and sit near him, touch him as it's relevant. He makes him feel warm, like he's held tightly against summer. Like Harry is the most gorgeous individual he has ever met, who he would non-negotiably do any favours to.

  
As night comes and the stars shine through the windows, Louis, Niall and Gemma pitch tents in the backyard. Louis can't remember the last time he hasn't been utterly despondent. Depression has consumed his wellbeing of which does not suffice. He thinks he's dependent upon loneliness, ultimate boredom in his unhappy, despairing life. He hoped to have it forever because he would have had nothing to lose. But now, these three persons with him, now he has everything. Harry in his life, he has everything he can possibly lose now.

  
They finish the sight, and Louis can't recall where Harry had gone.

  
Gemma says he doesn't like camping - that he's spending the weekend at a friend's.

  
The night goes by un-soothingly. Louis can feel himself hurting. He cannot do anything but lay in the tent that he had expected to share with Harry. He cannot let go of the conversations he has in his own head that he wished to have with Harry. He cannot let go of his own hand that he hoped would be Harry's by tonight. And he can't sleep. In a ball on one side, he can't stop staring at the tent that is blue.

  
Louis scrambles out of his tent and into the next one, squeezing in between Niall and Gemma with Harry still on his mind.

  
The next day he spent without the scowling boy. Nothing but the thought of him.

  
However, on Monday as Louis goes to college, he finds Harry late after in a literature room writing sentences on the chalkboard.

  
Louis opens his backpack and steals an old science assignment, throwing it at the back of Harry's head.

  
The boy's hand stops, standing still at the board. He visually opts to keep up his writing, then resumes plainly. "You don't have to throw things at me."

  
"Why have you gone on Saturday?"

  
"I don't like camping and I don't really like Niall, to be honest. He's loud and weird and I don't quite fancy him with my sister."

  
"That's no excuse to leave everyone. It got all boring when you left. And there were two tents. You could have shared with her, I would have gone with Niall so you wouldn't feel uncomfortable."

  
The boy mumbles something under his breath as he writes the words _Will Not_ very pristinely.

  
"What was that?"

  
"Nothing." He easily finishes his last sentence on the bottom of the board and sets down the chalk too vigorously for itself to handle. He turns round to face Louis, scowling at him. "You think that's what I was worried about? About how we all would have slept? I don't like camping. It's all sticky and there's mosquitoes, you sleep on the ground - it's just not my thing. I would have kindly let my sister share a tent with Niall or you share a tent with Niall or whatever. I wouldn't have stopped everyone from arranging themselves as fits, but if I had stayed, miraculously, I would have definitely been uncomfortable with whoever slept with who."

  
"Why?"

  
He doesn't say anything. He grabs his backpack and a book off the front desk, walking towards Louis who's stood in the way of the door. 

 

"Before I avoid you forever," he starts, "you left this at the library." Harry hands Louis _Dreadlocks_ before maneuvering past him, being his undivided avoidance for weeks.

And again, for weeks, Louis has been feeling this sudden leap of sadness. Days after Harry stopped talking to him is when he first felt his heart breaking. Not entirely of heartbreak, as it was, but of withering. Louis feels like he is withering from the inside out. He went to his old habits; he dresses in black, listens to slow music that is actually slow. He listens to Susanne Sundfør now, again. Louis cries everyday.

  
His mum has him on anti-depressants again, but to no avail. He screams in agony relentlessly, throws and breaks things, rips things up. He tries to kill himself regularly now, and sometimes in front of his mum, though there is nothing she can say to him without breaking down in tears.

  
Louis' sister Charlotte speaks to him about her matched.

  
"Remember when I went through this?" she recollects. "It's quite hard. Though it was only for about two days and I had nothing really that bad that it was coming from. Claire's dad died and I just felt... really down. And I couldn't go on anti-depressants because I was too young, and Mum said I didn't even need them. And she's right, I didn't. But you really do. You should ask Doctor Hanson to prescribe you medication instead of taking Mum's old one. It does nothing for you except make you want to take more."

  
Louis is suffering - it is no longer grief. Something bad has happened to his matched, wherever he may be. Wherever he may be, he's grieving just as Louis is. He is doing something that he shouldn't be, and the bond between them, the bond between him and Louis, is rhythmically bicycling them through hurt.

  
"You'll be okay," Niall likes to say. "You're always okay in the end. We'll always be all right, you and me."

  
Sometimes Louis answers him in tears.

  
"What would you do if you were me? If you knew something bad was happening. If Gemma was doing something bad and you knew it but you couldn't do anything, just let her feelings control you, what would you do? If something bad was happening to Gemma, what would you do?"

  
Niall doesn't answer sometimes, but when he does, he says: "I don't know."

  
The spiritual bond between matches, matched and unmatched, are unbreakable, even after death. It is as if both persons are tied to the other by the hands and feet, and the string may grow longer with leisure, but is never cut. Matches may go as far as time and gravity may take them, together or separately, but a bond will never be broken.

  
Louis went back to college in the winter. He must take remedial courses to catch up in studies. He was nonetheless warmly welcomed by Gemma and Niall, and for some time he managed to forget that he's been missing his wash connection for months. Even if it's only sometimes.

  
Louis no longer likes anything. He no longer likes to read or listen to music, when it's dreary also. As it snows, his once favourite neutral shade brings him down. The sun turns the sky a bright one, but doesn't satisfy him. His favourite minor shades' one-four, major shades' three, even teal emerald, doesn't satisfy him. Nothing. Absolutely nothing satisfies him now. He hasn't seen Harry since he last spoke to him in his literature class.

  
Today though, as is it snows lightly, he takes it upon himself to ask Gemma what has happened to him.

  
After school, Niall, Louis and Gemma go to see her brother.

  
Louis' wash connection goes off the moment he comes through the neighbourhood, and though it isn't strong, the pull he feels towards Gemma's house is stronger than he could ever imagine, and he proudly doesn't need directions (but of course he's walked down this way for years).

  
Louis can hear Harry the moment he walks in.

  
"Gemma!" His voice is absurdly distressed and ill. "Make him go away!"

  
"Niall?"

  
"No! Bloody Christ!" Harry comes trudging down the stairs, painfully groaning and clad in boxers, sweat coating him as completely as his tattoos do.

  
He looks at Louis from the centre of the staircase, and Louis feels the immediate response to run up and care for him. He takes only a few steps before Harry shields himself with a quivering hand.

  
"Don't come up. I don't want you here," he says, sniffling and blinking tears out of his eyes. "Go home."

  
"That's so mean," Gemma scolds him. "He came to see you. He's just been worried about you. You've been home for months, how is he to know you're okay?"

  
"You told them?!"

  
"No. Why would I do that?"

  
"It's nobody's goddamn business, Gemma, especially not your friends'!"

  
"You tell your friends all my business! Not even out of concern, you just tell everyone my business and it's so embarrassing, but when my friends genuinely want to know if you're okay, you act an arse! That's not funny!"

  
"I don't want people in my face right now, Gemma! Make him go!"

  
Louis can do nothing but take in the sight of him. Even as he talks to his sister about him as if he isn't present, he can't find himself minding because Harry has destroyed himself.

  
It's obvious to everyone that he's been crying, nonstop for weeks, even at this moment. His hair has grown and his roots have become an even brown, mussed and unkempt. Where his chest piece is lain settles in plasters and untended cuts, bandages wrapped round both his wrists and one tightly round his thigh. His skin is diffused. It seems neglected, facial hair grown far past stumble, eyes red, lips white. As if Louis doesn't have enough troubles with colourblindness. Louis can't tell if he is seeing through a wash or shades. He doesn't know anymore.

  
It's almost impossible to keep himself from falling to his knees now.

  
Harry senses this. He sighs inwardly with a quick look in Louis' direction, then pulls himself tiredly up the stairs.

  
But Louis feels a pull. It is called a bond and is present between a person and their matched.

  
Louis follows Harry quickly up the steps, bypassing Gemma's bid to stay, throwing himself into the boy's room before the door closes.

 

"What happened to you?" Louis presses, bracing his hands round Harry's arm. "Really this time. Why don't you like to camp? What was it _really_ that was bothering you? I'll do anything to make it go away."

  
"God, just leave me alone." The boy pries his arm out of Louis' grip, but he only latches onto the other.

  
"Tell me, please. Please tell me what's wrong."

  
"I can't like you!" He snatches his arm away and walks as far from Louis as he's possible without leaving. "I feel so damn drawn to you. Everything about you is everything I find attractive, but it's not even just little things, it's everything. Everything about you is inviting. I can't be matched to you."

  
"Why not?"

  
"Because you... You're a guy!"

  
Louis could have stumbled at the words if he hadn't had the wall to lean on.

  
"Why did you have to be a guy?" Harry turns into a mess of sobs in seconds, going on and on, unable to stop. "You're so cute and funny," he says, looking at Louis with sorrowed eyes. "And you're charismatic! You care about homeless people and you _read_! You actually answered the question: _what kind of music do you listen to?_ without saying 'I don't know'. That's so hard! And you wear black all the time, but you pull it off really well and you look super cool. You're like, the chillest person ever and you _appreciate calligraphy_. You're perfect. But you had to be a guy."

  
Louis likes to try to understand people. He likes to try his hardest to understand how people may be feeling and give his best, corresponding advice and reaction. He likes to do this with Niall, his mum and sisters most. Louis likes understanding how it may feel to be someone else. But he can't do that now.

  
"You arse!" Louis won't hit Harry the way he wants to, so he's flailing his arms. His breathing goes haywire and eyes wet with betrayal. "So you're telling me you left because you're homophobic?"

  
"It's not about the camping, Louis."

  
"I know it's not! Of course it's not! It's about you, stupid prick! How could you do this to me?" It's instinctive for him to cry now. "Have you any idea what you put me through? You had me half-dead for months barely able to talk. You _repeatedly_ hurt yourself over this - something so stupid - , you selfish, selfish twat! How is that supposed to make me feel? You knew we were matched and you didn't even care that you were giving me bad symptoms. You'd rather die than be with me."

  
"No, that's not how it is!" Gutted, Harry frantically reaches for Louis, but the boy yanks himself away.

  
"You're terrible," he says.

  
"That's not how it is, Louis, I swear, it's not."

  
"Then how is it?"

  
"It's not that I don't want to be with you. Why would I not want to be with the person I'm matched with? I'm not one of those people that try to distance themselves from their matched just because."

  
"But that's what you did."

  
"I know." Harry holds Louis' arm, pulling him close to comfort him, though Louis only looks away. "I know I let you down. I'm sorry. But you are not the reason I did it. You aren't, I promise. I just didn't want to see you because I thought that if I stopped hanging out with you, I'd stop talking about you to everyone."

  
Louis drops his head and sobs. "Are you embarrassed of me?"

  
Harry's heart noticeably breaks in two. "No, Louis, I'm not... embarrassed of you. I just..." His hands fidgeted on Louis' arm, clamming up and growing uncomfortable. He swallows. "I just can't hang out with you... or talk to you."

  
Louis doesn't speak to anyone anymore. He doesn't respond to his mum when she asks what's eating him, and he keeps his distance from Niall and Gemma, his only friends, because everyone reminds him too much of Harry.

  
His notions to stay home don't please his mum, so he must continue his public schooling. The stress of leaving his green and yellow, newly renovated room everyday gives him chronic stomach aches. Mild fevers drown him every night, Harry's last words to him haunting his dreams and days, even so. Louis doesn't think of him always, but in the times he does, he thinks for hours and far too long.

  
Louis believes he is matched. He believes that he's found his other half, but the inconvenience between them refuses to go, lingering, strangling the two as if they don't belong to each other.

  
Louis has begun driving. He drove to and from school everyday, The Weepies playing, as they are just as depressing as Susanne Sundfør, if not more, because they remind him of Harry.

  
But that was when school was going. Now it is the Christmas holiday, and today is Louis' birthday.

  
Gemma and Niall celebrate Christmas Eve with him, showering him in presents and laughs he doesn't feel are deserved.

  
"Happy Christmas Eve," they would say, only to smile and pretend that they'd forgotten his birthday.

  
Daisy and Phoebe surprise him with a collage of the family, his mum a new pair of sunglasses, a t-shirt and jumper. His father called to bid him a good day, promising to be there tomorrow, though Louis would prefer he didn't come.

  
He didn't like all of the attention. He'd rather be alone with his thoughts than with company. He would rather sit alone, hoping Harry were with him, doing nothing but sitting in the back of his closest because there, he can't see his full film. He can only see darkness. The world is still dark.

  
But just like that, Gemma gets a ring off of her phone, for Louis.

  
"Hello?"

  
"Hi. I'm not supposed to be on the phone, but I wanted to wish you a happy birthday and Christmas."

  
Louis goes to the half-bathroom and locks himself there, having a nervous seat on the toilet. "Why are you calling me?" he presses irritably. "You said you don't want to talk to me--"

  
"I said I _can't_ talk to you."

  
"Why? You don't talk to me at college. You ignore me. You're calling me now during the holiday and that makes me feel... It makes me feel so bad. You make me feel bad all the time, Harry."

  
He hears Harry shuffle some things, then a door close. "I am so sorry, love. I wanted to talk to you, but whenever I do, I get this obvious face. Gemma told my dad about you," he whispers. "He knows about you-- that we're matched. I'm not embarrassed of you, I swear, it's just-- I would hang out with you more if I could."

  
"Yeah. If you wanted to."

  
"That's not what I meant."

  
"You don't want your dad to disown you. I get it."

  
"Lou--"

  
"No." He stands, suddenly feeling so strong that he is afraid he may destroy his weak, self-abused body. "You won't take risks for me. You said... You said, 'Before I avoid you forever,' and gave me back my stupid book and you never talked to me after that. If you don't want to talk to me, then don't. Don't phone for me again."

  
Winter goes by, and at school again, Louis feels like he may vomit. He doesn't see Niall and Gemma much now, as he's alienated himself from all human contact. He has lists of recurring excuses whenever either of his friends need a ride home, no matter the circumstances. Louis has become so heartless that he sometimes pushes his sisters, and never does he say sorry for anything he does wrong anymore.

  
Today, however, after so long of forgetting that other people matter to him, he cares for his friends unbearably, still.

  
As he's walking to maths, he sees Niall get shoved into the wall, and just like that, Louis runs to his aid.

  
Niall hardly takes note of him - all of his concern is on Gemma who sits crying on the floor, knees drawn up, the top of her button-down torn open. And Niall can't manage to hold back the raging symptoms of their bond.

  
Louis pays no mind to the fight happening between his best friend and a boy he's never seen before, but who he already despises more than anything. He picks Gemma up and pulls her into his arms, petting the back of her head and swaying her comfortingly.

  
Niall would have sent the boy unconscious if someone hadn't pulled them apart for a moment.

  
Louis could guess what happened to Gemma. The thought of it makes his heart beat out of control. It makes him angry, to grow some sort of protective sense over her. He opts to take her hand and drive her home, prepared to get her anything she needs.

  
The moment his fingers touch hers, Niall moves to guard the both of them, and though it could have worked, it doesn't. The boy who hurt Gemma accidentally hits him, Louis' nose bleeding instantly.

  
Before anyone could care for him, before anyone could so much as turn round - before Louis could even feel the headache - Harry has the boy by the back of the shirt. He yanks him to the ground, drags him across the floor, kicking and punching him over, and over, and over again, as if he's never seen civilization a day in his life.

  
"Louis, are you okay?" Gemma cries, pushing his hair out of his face.

  
He can't understand her over Harry's voice that's screaming at the boy he has bleeding in his hands. He can't understand anything. He feels lightheaded, nauseous, like he may collapse at any second.

  
Officers pry the boys apart with difficulty, with them still lurching to hit each other. Harry is shoved against the wall first, handcuffed and brought to the side as the other boy is arrested for information gathered. They'd asked the three what had happened, and though Louis wasn't a full witness, agreed that Gemma was sexually assaulted.

  
Harry is let go, and as soon as the cuffs are off, he's at Louis' care.

  
The scowling boy sobs at the sight of him, caressing his face, pushing his fringe back to properly mourn for him. "Sweetheart," he pules, lifting Louis' chin to see him better. "Honey, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have let this happen."

  
Louis breathes heavily, his eyes fluttering. "It's not your fault. You weren't here."

  
"I should've been. I tried to get here faster. You were so scared."

  
"You didn't have to beat him up," Louis scolds as Harry wipes blood off his lips. "I had it."

  
"Oh, you had it? I should have beat the shit out of him for putting his hands on you two." He pulls Louis into his arms, and the harder the boy struggles, the more firmly Harry holds him, because even if he won't admit it, this is what Louis' been missing.

  
The four of them walk hand-in-hand to the Head Master's office: Niall kisses Gemma's fingers often as Harry has his arm round her shoulders, and his bloody-knuckled hand wrapped up with Louis' who thinks that nothing could ever be more perfect.

  
Louis' favourite colours are yellow, vermillion and teal emerald, and his favourite shade is white. He likes to listen to music whilst he runs, and he sometimes runs in the rain without rain boots. He likes to watch the sun when he wakes; to watch the birds fly and hear the leaves on the front garden tree whistle. Every day is a perfect day. In a world where perfectness exists, it can be grasped by anyone if they are willing to accept it.

  
Louis likes to ponder how he manages the pounding, dear dedication he feels for his matched. The lovely heartache he feels for him and everything he is never gives in.

  
Harry's father the literature professor no longer has him write sentences. Harry's father, the literature professor, no longer has him copy _I Will Not_ s verbatim on the chalkboard, for Harry now understands what it means to be for someone, and does no wrong. He no longer must write _I Will Not Attempt Suicide_ or _I Will Not Let My Family Down_ or _I Will Not Fall In Love With A Man_. All that he is, everything he's ever known and taken in, is about Louis now.

  
Louis visits the homeless shelter sometimes, and sometimes, he brings Harry who likes to have chats with the man with a brand-new coat and shoes.

  
Beautiful is the way they see each other, like the sky when it's the sun, and they won't dare let go.

  
Louis loves Harry. A lot.


End file.
